


Shadow of Your Shadow

by KillClaudio



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, Ghosts, Haunted Houses, M/M, Undercover as a Couple
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-16
Updated: 2019-10-16
Packaged: 2020-12-22 20:30:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21082652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KillClaudio/pseuds/KillClaudio
Summary: Most of the numbers came in first thing in the morning or last thing at night—John had always figured people made their stupidest decisions in the dark—so he was surprised when his earpiece beeped in the middle of the afternoon.





	Shadow of Your Shadow

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ArgylePirateWD](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArgylePirateWD/gifts).

Most of the numbers came in first thing in the morning or last thing at night—John had always figured people made their stupidest decisions in the dark—so he was surprised when his earpiece beeped in the middle of the afternoon. 

"We have a new number, Mr Reese," Harold said. "I'm sorry to interrupt your day off."

John had never really had a job that came with days off. He'd never done too well with what downtime he did get, either. It gave him too much time to think. He needed something to focus on, to stop his mind unspooling itself. He had a feeling Harold was the same way.

"Good thing I love my job," John said cheerfully. "I'll be right in."

"Actually, Ms Jamieson works at a department store in Midtown. Her shift finishes at five. If you hurry, you can catch her."

John glanced at his watch. "Text me the address."

Outside a misty rain was falling, and streetlights were coming on; this late in the year it got dark early. John settled in the lee of a building, collar turned up against the rain, and let Harold's voice warm him.

"Laura Jamieson is twenty-six," Harold said. "Works at the jewelry counter and shares an apartment with her sister in Queens. No hobbies, unless you count shopping and spending an unholy amount of time on Facebook."

Jamieson came out of the main doors and started up the street. John followed her at a discreet distance, dodging umbrellas. "She in any trouble?"

"Not that I can discover. Seems to get along well with the staff and customers. No debts…although she _is_spending her full income every month, most of it on designer goods. It appears Ms Jamieson has expensive tastes."

"Just like you, Harold."

"I'm not likely to be spending my money on Jimmy Choo pumps any time soon, Mr Reese."

Jamieson stopped at a food cart for coffee. John got in line behind her and opened the bluejacking app. Immediately half a dozen phones appeared, people standing in line or buying coffee, but none that belonged to Jamieson. He tried again. Nothing. 

"Hey, Finch?" John said as he ordered coffee. "She doesn't have a phone."

"That's odd." He could hear Harold drumming his fingers in the background. "How many twenty-somethings in New York don't have a phone?"

"Not many. But if someone didn't want to be tracked…?"

"That's what I was thinking. Has she spotted you?"

"Harold, I'm hurt."

Half way down a side street in Midtown, Jamieson slowed down. She kept throwing glances across the street, and then she darted over the crossing and vanished into a hotel. 

John followed her in. It was an elegant, Art Deco building, the kind built by wealthy industrialists in the twenties to house their rich friends. The interior was a different story. Someone had heard the word 'opulent' and decided that was too subtle. Gold featured quite heavily. So did a lot of elaborate patterned wallpaper. There were heavy drapes. There was more gold. John recoiled in horror, and stepped back towards reception, where a smiling staff member pounced on him. 

"Good evening, sir. Do you have a reservation?"

"Uh—"

"Just a minute," Harold's voice came through the earpiece, steady and sure. "Stall her."

"I think so, but I'm afraid my partner made it, and I'm not sure which name…"

"I can look it up for you. Is it just the two of you?"

"That's right. It's, um, it's our anniversary, and we wanted to spend some quality time together…"

"Of course. Did your partner book a suite? What's her name?"

"His name is Crane," Harold's voice said, prissy and annoyed, and John gave her a dazzling smile and said, "His name is Harold Crane."

"Oh, I'm so sorry, I shouldn't have assumed…" She started typing, flustered. "Yes, here it is, let me grab your key." She pushed over a form for him to sign. "And congratulations on your anniversary. We'll send up a bottle of champagne, compliments of the hotel. I'm really sorry, I didn't mean to imply anything—"

"It's fine," John said, taking pity on her. "It's not the first time." He signed the form with an illegible scrawl and took the key card she handed him. "My partner should be here pretty soon."

"I'll call for that champagne," she said, smile only a little fixed. 

The room was on the tenth floor, decorated in a period style with heavy wooden furniture. "That's reproduction," Harold sniffed in his ear. "And I hope the bed is more comfortable than it looks."

"Sorry," John said sheepishly. "There aren't a lot of options for stalling when you're in a hotel that specializes in—" he picked up a brochure from the table, "—honeymoons, couples' retreats and romantic getaways."

"I suppose I've become an indispensable part of your cover, then." There was more typing in the background. "I'll be there in fifiteen minutes."

"Thank you." John thought of something else. "Harold? Do you remember when I was tailing Judge Gates, you disguised a camera inside a fire alarm? Do you still have it?"

"I'm sure it's around here somewhere."

"Can you bring it with you?"

"Alright. And Mr Reese? Try to work out just what on earth our number is doing there."

John sighed. He eyed the huge four-poster that Harold would be occupying this evening, then opened the bathroom door and looked at the claw-footed bathtub where he'd be sleeping. It wasn't that he didn't want to spend the night in a hotel with Harold. That wasn't it at all.

He went back downstairs and over to the receptionist, who seemed to have regained her composure. "I'm sorry, I've just remembered—do you know if there's a pharmacy near here?"

"There's one on the corner of West 44th and 9th." She pointed out the door. "Three blocks that way."

"Could you write down the address?"

If this was a strange request, she didn't show it. While she was bent over her notepad, John subtly shifted so he could see her screen. There was a list of recent check-ins along the left-hand side. Jamieson was in 315.

"Thank you." John took the paper and headed out the front door. For the sake of appearances he walked in the direction of the pharmacy, then circled around the building, noting the position of the windows, the people standing around outside.

He went back inside and headed for the elevators, then slipped through the staff door just beyond them and down the corridor. He was lucky; there was no shift change at five in the afternoon, and the place was quiet. Two minutes in the locker room got him a uniform jacket that fit. John bundled it up under his arm and went back upstairs.

When he got back to the room, Harold was setting up his laptop on the desk in the room. He was wearing a navy three-piece suit that was one of John's favorites, with a pale blue shirt and a sapphire tie with a matching pale blue stripe. John took a moment to stand there and drink him in. "Hi honey," he said in syrupy tones. "Did you miss me?"

Harold raised his eyebrows. He pulled the fire alarm out of his bag and put it on the table. "That shouldn't be too noticeable on a hotel wall. Where are you going to put it?"

"In the room." John stashed the server uniform and the fire alarm in the closet and tossed his jacket over the table, moving things around and generally making a mess of the room. After a minute he had every surface covered. 

"What are you doing?" Harold asked, but before John could answer, there was a knock on the door. 

The champagne. John held the door open for the server to push the cart through, then gestured around him at the mess. "Put it, uh… actually, could you just leave the cart here for now?" He held out a fifty.

The man smiled. "No problem, sir. Let us know if you need anything else. Have a nice night."

It was so satisfying when a plan went smoothly. John put the uniform jacket on over his shirt, slipped the fire alarm and a couple of bugs into his pocket, and wheeled the cart out the door. "Give me ten minutes."

He took the service elevator down to the third floor and knocked on the door of 315. There was a moment of silence, and then the small amount of light coming through the peephole vanished. John did his best to look bored and harmless. 

Jamieson opened the door cautiously, the way John would have done, but with both her hands visible. No weapon. She frowned at him. "What's this?"

"Compliments of the hotel, ma'am. We like all our couple to have a pleasant stay."

She opened her mouth, closed it again. "Yeah, okay. Come in."

John planted the fire alarm on the wall near the door as soon as her back was turned. He wheeled the cart over to the side table and spread out the cloth with a flourish, planting a bug underneath as he did so. He set out the ice bucket and glasses, then turned to leave. 

Jamieson was frowning down at her phone. Her _phone_. John felt in his pocket and hit the bluejacking app again, praying it would work this time. As he moved back towards the door he planted another bug on the dresser. "Can I get you anything else, ma'am?"

"No, thank you." She handed him a bill and closed the door firmly in his face. 

John took the cart and jacket back downstairs and dumped them in a closet by the service elevator, then dropped his tip on top as an apology to whoever had to clean up after him. As he crossed the lobby to the main elevators, his eye caught on a large glass cabinet covering the back wall. It was a miniature museum display, artifacts from the rich and famous who had stayed there over the years. 

The centerpiece was a pretty substantial diamond, 19 carats according to the display, and a sickly yellow color. A placard behind it had a photograph of a middle-aged man with a paunch and his pretty young wife. Apparently the diamond had been discovered in a mine in South Africa, a gift to the lady for their first anniversary. Two years later she had run off with her lover, taking the diamond with her. The owner had sent his men after her to get it back, and she'd died cursing the diamond that had caused all the trouble. "That's romantic," John said out loud.

Over his shoulder, someone giggled. 

It wasn't the friendly giggle of people sharing a joke. This was cold, malicious; the laugh of a waiting predator watching the prey walk into the trap. And it didn't sound remotely human. 

John whirled around, hand going to the small of his back, the hairs of the back of his neck standing up. But the lobby was empty.

"Did you know this place is supposed to be haunted?" John asked Harold when he got back to the room. 

"By the ghost of good taste, no doubt." Harold had picture and sound from Jamieson's room up on the screen. "The force pair completed, although there's nothing on the phone at the moment." He gestured to where Jamieson was pacing back and forth and looking at her phone. "It seems she's waiting for a phone call."

"Then I guess we wait." As far as stakeouts went, this one was pretty comfortable. John pulled a chair over next to Harold and sat, his legs stretched out in front of him. "Thanks for the assist earlier."

"That reminds me; I believe you forgot an essential element of your cover. Here." Harold reached into jacket pocket and pulled out a small box. 

It was a plain gold band, with the rich glow of twenty-four carat, and it fit perfectly on John's finger. No doubt Harold had the best jeweler in the city on speed dial, in case they needed it for a cover. His attention to detail knew no bounds. Still, it was a wedding ring. Harold had picked it for him. 

"Isn't this moving a little fast, Finch?" John asked, hoping he was hitting the right note of teasing. He felt strange, shivery all over. 

Harold just gave him a look. "Be serious, Mr. Reese. I've just looked up the hotel rates; the bill is going to be astronomical. How can Ms Jamieson afford to stay here?"

"You did say she had expensive tastes."

"Even so, this is way out of her budget."

Jamieson's phone rang. John immediately sat up from his slouch and leaned forward. 

"Where the hell are you?" Jamieson was asking angrily. 

Harold hit a key and the bug went silent, only the audio from the force pair coming through the speakers. 

"…had to pick up the stuff," a female voice was saying. "We're on our way now."

"Jesus Christ, you were supposed to be here an hour ago. Does Mark have the picks?"

"We've got everything, will you please relax? Mark says this is going to be a walk in the park."

"That would be Mark Cooper," Harold said; as he typed, a photograph came up on the screen. "He's dating Ms Jamieson's sister, Molly. And it appears—" there was more typing "—he has a criminal record. Shoplifting and petty theft."

"…don't care how easy he thinks it will be, we're about to commit grand larceny. I need you to take this seriously, Molly!"

"Look, have a drink from the minibar or something. We'll be there in thirty minutes."

Jamieson made a frustrated noise and hung up. 

Harold looked across at John. "That seems to clear up a few things."

"One guess what they're stealing," John said, and told Harold about the diamond. 

"That would certainly be the obvious target," Harold agreed. "And it's in the lobby? I didn't notice much security down there." 

"Neither did I. Let's go take a look."

The lobby was a little busier now, mostly people headed out for dinner. John got a ringside seat for Harold's pitch-perfect performance; arrogant, wealthy businessman with loud opinions. 

"Of course, blue is much rarer," Harold said, once he'd read the display. "I was lucky enough to see the Wittelsbach-Graff Diamond at a private viewing a few years ago – it was very impressive. Although this one is quite nice too." He walked casually to the end of the case, ostensibly to look at some old photographs but actually to examine the glass. 

John looked around carefully. The last thing they wanted was for anyone to think they were casing it. A couple of staff members walked past, but no one looked at them. 

"Did I ever tell you that I met Heidi Horten once? A lovely woman. Oh dear…" Harold dropped his glasses and bent to pick them up, snapping a photograph of the specs on the underside of the casing. John moved to cover him, and as he did so he noticed the receptionist was leaning over the front desk to see what they were doing. 

"Here." John held out his arm like a good husband, and helped Harold to his feet. "We have an audience."

"I noticed." Harold put a hand on John's shoulder—casual, familiar, telegraphing what he was about to do— and then he leaned forward and kissed him. 

John couldn't help pressing into the kiss, just a little. Harold was _kissing him_, light and sweet and not nearly enough, and John would happily stand in this lobby for the rest of his life if only he would keep doing it. 

It ended too soon. As Harold pulled away, John tried to arrange his expression into that of a man who kissed his husband every day, not one who had just kissed his crush for the first time; and most probably the last. 

"Thank you for indulging me," Harold said warmly, still in character. "Let's go back upstairs."

Back in the room, Harold pulled the specs of the cabinet and started scrolling through them. John leaned on the chair and read over his shoulder. Toughened glass reinforced with thermoplastic, a carbon fiber frame. It all sounded good, but it didn't mean anything; the weakness was the locks themselves, poorly secured and not complex enough to present a real challenge. 

"It looks as though they're simply going to break in," Harold said. 

"Smash and grab. Whatever happened to criminals with imagination?" John asked sadly. 

"I can hardly blame them, given how little security the hotel has, especially for such a valuable gem. There should be armed guards, at least. Not only that, the owner has given several interviews where he informs the world that they're offering it up for any thief who wants to take it. Apparently the curse will protect the stone." Harold's expression showed what he thought of that. 

"Could it be a trap?" John asked. "Someone at the hotel playing games?"

"Anything's possible, but I'm not inclined to jump to conclusions. There are few limits to the depths of human stupidity."

John considered that. "We could just call the NYPD."

"Our only evidence is an illegal wiretap," Harold said. "And I'm betting they'd have some questions about how we obtained it. Detective Fusco is spending time with his son this evening. Detective Carter has taken hers to a party and was good enough to watch Bear. I'd rather not disturb their evening."

"If you say so. But if this is nothing more than common theft, why did the Machine give us Jamieson's number?" John looked back at the screen. Jamieson's sister had arrived at the hotel, and the two of them were unpacking. "Any indication either of the girls have weaponed up?"

Harold pulled up phone records and credit card bills and started scanning through them. "Hmm. Molly withdrew several hundred dollars from an ATM a few days ago. Just a moment, let me see if any of the stores have security cameras." He started typing and a minute later grainy footage of a street appeared on the screen. Molly could be seen disappearing into a pawn shop, only to come out a few minutes later clutching a wrapped package.

John groaned. These weren't criminals, they were dumb kids who had seen too many movies. He really didn't want to have to shoot them.

"Where did Cooper go? Finch, can you get into the hotel's CCTV?"

"Of course," Harold said, offended that he even had to ask, and a few seconds later John was looking at a bank of video from across the hotel. 

"I want the outdoor cameras. The ones covering the street." Harold pulled up the cameras covering the main entrance, and John scanned the feeds. "No. Try the southwest corner." They moved steadily around the building, until John spotted a guy sitting in his car, looking at the door. There was something about his body language that pinged all John's spy senses. "Can you zoom in?" he asked, and Harold enlarged the picture until his face could be clearly seen, then pulled up Molly's Facebook page in another window. 

"That's the boyfriend. He's there to keep their exit clear. They break open the case, grab the diamond, and leave through the south exit. If nothing goes wrong they can be out in five minutes." John looked at the video feed, running scenarios in his head. Three against one was hardly fair to them, but it was a lot harder when he was trying not to hurt any of them. "I'm going to need to even things up a little. I'll be right back."

John grabbed a handful of gravel from a plant pot as he went outside. He positioned himself in the doorway of a service entrance, hidden from view behind the car. Then he threw a piece of gravel at the rear windscreen. 

Cooper jerked in his seat and looked in the rear view mirror, but evidently he didn't see anything. John waited a minute and then did it again. This time Cooper's head came around, searching for the source of the noise. As soon as he sat back, John did it again. 

"What the fuck?" Cooper got out of the car and started coming angrily towards John, squinting to make out his shape in the darkness. "Are you looking for trouble? Because I can make as much trouble as you want—"

John knocked him out with one punch and propped him against the wall while he popped open the lock with a bump key and the butt of his gun. Inside there was a handy cupboard full of uniforms. John stuffed him in there without a qualm. 

"I hope you didn't do too much damage," Harold said when he got back upstairs.

"You can't make an omelet without breaking heads," John said, and enjoyed Harold's responding eye-roll. "We'll leave him for the NYPD in the morning."

"I suppose there's nothing to do now but wait." Harold had draped his jacket over the back of the chair and rolled up his sleeves, exposing his forearms. John tried not to look, and almost missed Harold saying, "I took the liberty of ordering room service."

Harold wasn't used to stakeout the way John was, and after dinner he was clearly restless, pacing across the room and repeatedly checking the laptop. "What are we supposed to do for entertainment?"

"Well, Finch," John said, enjoying himself immensely, "people come here on _honeymoon_…"

Harold's shot him a long-suffering look. 

But John had already checked the drawers, and he was prepared. Besides, it had worked with Zoe. "There's a deck of cards. What do you say we play a little poker?"

He regretted it almost as soon as they started. Of course this would be another thing Harold excelled at. John had had a fair amount of practice in dingy underground bars, but Harold had a lifetime experience in concealing his true feelings. He didn't have any tells. John was sure. He'd been looking for a long time.

And they were playing for money, which was completely unfair when Harold basically had an infinite supply of it. John examined his cards and idly wondered what they could play for that Harold would be reluctant to stake. Truthful answers to questions. That would make Harold squirm, although in all honesty there was very little John wanted to ask him any more. Kisses. John would happily stake as many of those as he could, he had an infinite supply as far as Harold's concerned. He imagined betting a kiss now, kneeling by Harold's chair to collect, Harold's hand coming up to hold him in place…

"Call," Harold said, pushing another note into the pile. 

John dropped his cards on the table. "Two pair." 

Harold turned his cards over. "Three of a kind."

John groaned. "Did you have a secret career as a card sharp that I don't know about?"

Harold did the adorable eyebrow raise he always used when he was being secretive. "Not exactly, but perhaps some youthful indiscretions. Did I ever tell you about the time Nathan decided we could make a fortune at blackjack by learning to count cards?"

"No, you didn't." John was delighted. "So this is how you really made your millions, Finch?"

"As you can imagine, it was less than successful. He roped me into it, along with our friend Arthur, a gifted programmer from our class; a brilliant math major called Lisa; and a girl who was a philosophy major at Boston U and spent all her time playing poker. I'm not sure she ever went to a lecture."

John couldn't help but laugh. "And after you'd assembled your motley crew, what happened?"

"The basics of card counting aren't actually that complicated. You subtract one for high value cards, add one for low value and ignore the middling ones. Keep a running total and bet accordingly. Nathan dug up an old book about it and after a week of practice we could more or less manage it. Then, in his usual impulsive way, he booked us all tickets to Las Vegas."

"Let me guess – you cleaned them out?"

"We finished the weekend a whopping $150 up. Thirty dollars each, and when you account for the flights and hotel we were operating at a considerable loss. But Nathan was triumphant, and his enthusiasm was always infectious. He spent our winnings on champagne and dragged us all up to the roof of the hotel to drink it. We toasted our highly dubious success just as it started getting light, and we all stood there and watched the sun rise out of the desert."

Harold had a faraway expression on his face, lost in memories. John couldn't have looked away at gunpoint. "Remind me never to cross you, Finch."

Harold's smile was small and soft. "I think we're rather beyond that now, John."

When he was satisfied that he'd won every penny John had, Harold stood and slipped off his shoes, loosened his tie. He did something to the laptop and the video feeds from Jamieson's room filled the screen. "We'll get an alert as soon as they move." He settled on the bed with his phone, leaving plenty of room on the other side, and glanced across at John. "I don't bite, Mr Reese."

A pity. "I don't plan on sleeping," John told him. 

"Still, you may as well be comfortable. "

John shrugged. He took off his jacket and shoes and lay down on the bed, Harold tapping away next to him on his phone. He wouldn't fall asleep, but it wouldn't be a bad idea to rest. Just for a minute.

* * *

This time there was no money on the table. Harold laid down three of a kind and eyed John critically. "The jacket first, Mr Reese." 

John took off his jacket. After the next hand, he lost his shoes. Then his shirt. By the time he'd managed to get Harold down to his vest and shirtsleeves, John was sitting there in nothing but his pants, bared to Harold's hungry gaze. 

Harold stood and walked slowly around John's chair; assessing, admiring. He put a warm hand on John's shoulder, then trailed it slowly down across his chest, brushing a nipple, until his hand was pressed, warm and firm, over the center of John's chest. John tipped his head back to look at Harold, his eyes bright behind the glasses. 

"You can open your pants, Mr Reese," Harold said, and John reached for his fly…

* * *

John jerked awake suddenly, the warm weight of Harold's hand still pressed to his chest. It took him a moment to realize that he wasn't dreaming. Harold had rolled over in his sleep, his face pressed to the pillow beside John, glasses askew, mouth open. His hand was splayed over John's heart. 

John took a minute to lie there and drink him in, without the constant awareness he usually had to maintain around Harold. Then he gently lifted Harold's arm and slid out from under it. He couldn't resist pressing a kiss to the knuckles before covering Harold with the blanket. John went to the window and stared down into the street. A few party-goers were weaving home, cabs slowly crawling for patrons.

He had gotten luckier than he could ever have believed possible, back when Harold had hauled him off the street. He had a job he loved, friends he could trust, a purpose. There was just one thing that would make his life perfect. But John wasn't stupid enough to hope for it, although sometimes he couldn't stop himself dreaming. 

But even that pain was a kind of sharp pleasure; to be allowed to spend time with Harold every day, work with him, tease him, stare at him when he wasn't looking. Loving Harold was the one pure, unadulterated good in John's life, the one thing that never hurt. Adoring him the way he deserved always made John feel good, and Harold paid it back in spades by being funny and interesting and infinitely kind and altogether worth adoring. If only—

There was no point thinking about if only. John should know better by now.

Outside the window, something giggled.

John flattened himself against the wall, gun held up at shoulder level, but there was nothing there. They were ten stories above the street, and the only people still around at this hour were drunks making their way home. 

"A common loon." Harold had woken up and was putting his glasses back on. "They fly over the city sometimes. It's really quite an eerie call, isn't it?"

"A bird?" John was skeptical. It was a long time since he'd jumped at shadows. "I'm beginning to think this place might really have a ghost."

"If ghosts were real, Mr Reese, you and I would be the most haunted men in New York. We're dealing with a group of amateur jewel thieves." 

Harold eased himself off the bed and pressed his hands into the small of his back. John longed to go over there and embrace him, rub Harold's sore muscles, distract him from the pain with soft kisses. Instead he pulled his shoes back on and sat down in front of the monitors. "Whatever they're going to do, they better do it soon."

"I suppose it's possible these are only preliminary—" Harold started, and at that moment the light came on in Jamieson's room. "Never mind."

"Here we go." John grabbed his gun and checked it, then pocketed his spare magazine. "Stay here. Get ready to call the cops once they start breaking in."

John figured even the Jamiesons would notice the elevator doors opening, so he took the stairs down to the lobby. There was no one around; even the nighttime staff seemed to have deserted the place. The two women were standing in front of the glass case, examining the edges. Laura had the picks held casually in her right hand, half concealed by her coat. The gun made a slight bulge in Molly's pocket. John had to hand it to them, they were at least being subtle. 

Then apparently they had chosen their moment, because Laura glanced around her, and started to pick the lock.

John could hear Harold over his earpiece as he called the NYPD, pretending to be a suspicious member of staff. The actual staff were nowhere to be seen. He glanced at his watch, timing them. It was clear Laura had been practicing, but not quite enough. Two minutes… three… then something turned beneath her hand, and she hissed at her sister, "Got it! Lift the top!"

"That's not such a good idea." John stepped out from where he'd been concealed at the foot of the stairwell. "I think these nice people might like to hang on to their diamond a while longer."

They both whirled around. "Who the hell are you?" Laura asked. 

Why did they always ask that? "I'm the guy who's holding a gun," John said, trying for his most intimidating stare. He really didn't want to shoot them. "Now, leave the cabinet and get down on your knees. Hands in the air."

Molly's hand went to her pocket. John dived for the cover of the couch next to him, and two bullets went whistling harmlessly over his head. Someone _had_ to have heard that. He put a bullet in the floor in front of her feet, a warning sign, and hit his earpiece. "Call the NYPD again and tell them shots have been fired," he told Harold. "Doesn't this place have any kind of security?"

Three bullets hit the wall above him. John returned fire, careful not to hit either of them. It wasn't going to take her long to run out of ammo at this rate, and hopefully at that point he'd be able to usher them both into the waiting arms of the NYPD. He stuck his head above the couch just in time to see Laura reaching into the case to grab the diamond. 

All the lights went out. 

John cursed and wriggled across the floor on his belly. They were making enough noise that he could place them even in the pitch dark, but if there was someone else in here, he couldn't sense them. Were the girls just patsies? Had someone planned to steal the diamond and let them take the fall?

From somewhere in the darkness came a high-pitched giggle. 

John froze. He sat up slightly, listening, straining to hear. From across the room came the harsh breathing of the sisters. Nothing moved. 

A scratching sound started up from the main entrance, the sound of nails scraping over wood and glass. It worried at the door and then moved towards the windows, prying at the edges, searching for a way in. 

"Greed…" a voice whispered, and it sounded like it was coming from everywhere and nowhere. "Pretty girls like pretty jewels. Come here, pretty girls…"

With a muffled scream, Laura shot off in the direction of the side door, Molly following her. John stood and moved silently along the wall, gun held at shoulder height, searching for the threat. He winced as Laura threw herself bodily at the door. She rattled at the handle, and for a second he thought they might be trapped inside, but then the door was thrown open and they both dashed outside. 

Not quite fast enough. The door slammed behind them as though caught by the wind, and John heard Molly scream. When he got there she was clutching her hand to her chest, whimpering, and her fingers were bent at an unnatural angle. 

John looked around for a cab. The streets were empty even for three in the morning; not even the usual drunks ambling home, no night shift workers or insomniacs drinking diner coffee. It was absolutely silent. "Come on." He dragged the two of them up the street. Laura had one arm around Molly's shoulders. "You're going straight to hospital, and I'll—"

Above them, the street light flickered, then went out. The next one started to dim, and then all around them lights were blinking and failing, and John watched as all down the street shops and restaurants went dark. The cold seemed to be creeping in, worse than simply November in New York. This cold seeped straight into his bones, sent shivers down his spine and made every muscle in his body ache. 

"Pretty girls…" the voice whispered again. "You can have all the jewels in the world…" 

Something swished a few feet above John's head. He pushed the two women behind him, aiming up into the darkness, but whatever was there wasn't the kind of thing he could shoot down—

A sudden explosion went off in the middle of the street, white lines of phosphorescence blazing into the air. John shielded his eyes, blinded, and when he could see again the streetlights had come back on and the faint background hum of the city could be heard again. 

Harold was standing a few feet from where the explosion had been, the bottom of his trousers chemical-stained and slightly singed. "It's amazing what you can create from household items," he said. "It was a little rough but it seems to have been effective". 

Trust Harold to charge in and save him. "I didn't know I was working for MacGyver," John teased him. "But I like it."

"I assure you my methods are much more sophisticated, although I do have some sympathy with his attitude to firearms."

A cab came down the street towards them, the ordinary New York nightlife filtering in again. Harold hailed it decisively and held the door open for Molly, who clambered in awkwardly, still clutching her hand. John turned to get Laura, and found her eyes darting between the cab and the stone she held, slowly backing away.

"Don't even think about it." John admired her commitment, but that didn't mean he was going to give her a chance. He grabbed her wrist and squeezed until he gasped and opened her hand, then caught the stone as it dropped. "You're taking your sister to the hospital."

Harold slipped the driver two fifties and told him to drop them at New York General. He turned and looked at the stone as John held it up to the light. In the strange glare of the sodium streetlights it looked even more malevolent. 

"Alright," Harold said. "Why don't we put the stone back and hope that sends…" he gestured above them, "…_it_ back where it came from."

John raised his eyebrows. "Where _did_ it come from?"

"More things in heaven and earth, Mr Reese."

"I don't think it came from either of those places, Finch."

Their first problem, as they discovered when they tried to get back in the hotel, was that the door was locked. Every door. John banged on the panels and shouted, but to no avail. The night seemed to swallow his voice, and the silence and the cold were creeping back over them. 

Harold had his lock picks with him. "If there's one thing I've learned since the beginning of our association, Mr Reese, it's the value of getting in where you're not wanted."

"Pretty sure you were already good at that," John said. He had his gun drawn, covering Harold, but he was afraid that wasn't going to be much help when whatever it was came back. "Any time now."

"Got it." 

Moving through the lobby was like walking into the teeth of a hurricane. "Stay here," John said to Harold. He pressed himself forward, focusing all his attention on the empty case on the far wall, twenty feet and a million miles away. The whispering had started up again, just on the edge of his hearing, and the struggle was as much psychological as physical, every instinct screaming at him to turn and run. 

"Greed…" the voice whispered again, next to his ear and inside his head. "I could give you anything…" Invisible nails caught at the sleeve of his jacket. "I could give you the world…"

John thought of Harold, giving him an apartment, a job, a life. A new calling. The thought was like a ray of sunshine, pushing aside the darkness that was trying to hold him back. "Pretty sure that position has already been filled," John murmured, and dropped the diamond back in its case.

Some unseen force lifted John and threw him backwards, spinning him across the room. John consciously loosened all his muscles and rolled as he hit the top of a couch, finishing up on his side on the floor. No bones broken.

The irregular sound of dress shoes on polished wood came towards him, and then Harold was kneeling beside him and running warm hands over his torso. "John, are you alright?" The panic in Harold's voice was evident. "Are you hurt?"

John rolled over onto his back and looked up. The lights were coming back on, haloing Harold in gold. John had a few bruises that he'd be feeling in the morning, but he wasn't bleeding anywhere, apart from a minor cut on his lip. Most important of all, Harold was still in once piece, not even his tie askew. John didn't care what else happened, as long as he had that. 

He aimed his best puppy-dog look up at Harold. "I bit my lip. Maybe you could kiss it better, honey."

Harold leaned down and kissed him.

Harold was a _great_ kisser, even upside down. When he pulled away, John opened his eyes to look at him again. "Is there anything you're not good at?"

Harold frowned. "John, did you hit your head?"

"God, I hope not," John said, and sat up to get a better angle. 

The second kiss was even better than the first. The only problem was that Harold wouldn't stop trying to take between kisses. "I'm sorry—" he tried to say. "I thought you were— I was trying to— John—"

John had been thinking of the room upstairs, but suddenly the idea of staying here was unbearable. "Come home with me," he said desperately, fingers tangled with Harold's. "Please—" and Harold said, "Yes, yes certainly," and pulled him towards the door. 

They held hands the whole way home, John unable to let go of Harold, unable to tear his eyes away. He couldn't let go even after they got through the door, walking Harold gently back towards the bed with his fingers wrapped in Harold's lapels, kissing as they went. John held Harold's hands as he undid the cufflinks, kissing the tips of his fingers, the inside of his wrist.

They ended up in a warm cocoon of blankets, pressing every inch of skin together, chasing away the last of the unnatural cold. John kissed across Harold's chest, his belly, his thighs, until Harold dragged him up again and wrapped warm arms around him, refusing to let go. 

When they were done John pressed his face to Harold's chest, encouraging the stroking fingers in his hair. If this wasn't heaven then he was pretty sure it was the closest he was ever going to come. 

John lay in Harold's arms as the first light of dawn touched the ceiling above them and thought of the life he'd been pretending to lead for a few hours, the dinners and evenings together and warm kisses. "Stay," he whispered to Harold. "I want to make you breakfast. I want to lie with you on the couch. I want to make love to you. Harold, please." 

"I confess," Harold said slowly, his fingers tangled in John's hair and a smile beginning to light in his eyes, "that I was glad, when you walked into the hotel this evening, even though I didn't want to be. I thought a few stolen hours was better than nothing, even if it wasn't real. But I was wrong, wasn't I?"

"So wrong." John couldn't bear it. He pressed his face to Harold's chest again, feeling Harold's fingers wrapped in his hair, his anchor. "It's real, Harold. It's real."


End file.
